


Spring Violets Under the Snow

by WhatIfIAmInsane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Flowers, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Johnlock - Freeform, Language of Flowers, M/M, Spring, TUJC Challenge #2 - Spring Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6458857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIfIAmInsane/pseuds/WhatIfIAmInsane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring is the time of cleaning out the mess and starting into a new part of your life. After everything that happened Sherlock finally sets about cleaning up the misunderstandings between himself and John. Being anything but predictable, he creates some more chaos on the go, leaving John grasping at straws to figure out why he suddenly finds flowers everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Violet

Sherlock hadn’t slept… for… he believed it to be just the one night, but it was probably closer to two. He couldn’t remember. It didn’t even matter, to be completely honest. He checked the clock. Thirty-two hours. He hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours. 

 

He rubbed his eyes, his vision getting fuzzy as he tied the delicate white ribbon into a knot, gathering the cluster of small white violets together in a miniscule boquet. He held it in his palm and started to pace. Think.

 

John would be awake in… he checked the clock again… four hours. That gave him plenty of time to think. Well, maybe not plenty of time but some time. He just couldn’t lose track of time, he countinously reminded himself. It was after all, of the essence, though it was quite possible that in his delirium he was misusing that particular phrase. Three hours and fifty-six minutes. Okay. He could do this. He scanned over his handwritten notes once more, gnawing away at his lip. He’d spent the last thirty-two hours of consciousness dedicating all of his mind power to this very gesture. He’d researched, checked sources, sought out the anonymous advice of complete strangers, done more research, checked  _ those _ sources, and it all lead him here. It was simple. Very, very simple.

 

Offering a small token of affection in the most traditional of manners - presenting flowers to an intended lover. Hoping for the best. He could do this.

 

But while the act itself was simple, they were not. They’d danced around the subject ever since they’d met. Denying and avoiding it, never able to fully embrace it, constantly missing each other and missing their moments and  _ regreting _ \- always regreting.

 

Now, though. Now, John was back in his rightful place - properly moved back into 221B and sleeping in his room upstairs. The latter, however, needed to be addressed. After all of this regreting and missing and avoiding and denying. After finally being properly reuinted as friends, best friends, Sherlock wished to introduce a new aspect to this lifelong relationship.

 

Hence the research and the flowers and the pretty ribbon which had taken him hours to decide on…

 

Three hours and twenty-two minutes.

 

He just needed the perfect place for John to  _ find them _ .

 

Sherlock, very carefully, placed the tiny white flowers into the pocket of his dressing gown before he began to drum his fingers against his lips and pace the floor. He kept a keen ear out for any signs of movement or disruption that may signify the other man waking, as he began to work out the rest of the details.

 

How soon did he want this? Well, that was obvious, right? As soon as possible. So he would need to place the flowers where John would find them almost immediately. He began to run through John’s typical morning routine that he had observed over the years. Unless Sherlock did anything to disrupt it, it very rarely faltered. 

 

He could very easily just give John the flowers the moment he saw him. He’d realized this, but that would risk diminishing the grandness of the gesture. No, after all this time? John deserved… that word… far greater than sentiment, the exhileration and mystery associated with feeling of love… ah, yes! Romance. John deserved romance.  

 

And Sherlock was going to prove that he was capable of such a thing. No matter how violently his guts twisted inside him or his chest tightened at the mere thought of it.

 

So John’s routine turn off alarm, check phone messages, get up Sherlock snapped. Yes, of course. If he placed the violets right on the alarm clock, John would have to notice them. His eyes locked on the staircase.

 

Two hours and thirty eight minutes until that alarm would go off. He would have to be stealthy, careful, and above all: quiet, if he intended to creep up those stairs without waking the other. The alarm clock was situated on the nightstand closest to the door, so that would be easy. He would just have to steer clear of the second and fifth stairs which creaked, and be very mindful when opening the door.

 

Sherlock swiped his fingers across his eyes before he began to tiptoe towards John’s bedroom door. Bypassing the second and fifth stair, as originally planned, staying close to the wall on the left side, tracing his fingers across the raised wallpaper until they brushed against the ornamental frame of the paiting that hung halfway down. He paused for a minute and craned his head, listening for any signs of movement. None. John remained asleep. Perfect.

 

He pulled out his small bouquet of white violets, held together with the white ribbon to match, just as he reached the door. Turning the doorknob slightly to the right before twisting to the left, he popped the door open with ease. His eyes focused on the slight glow the digital numbers from the alarm clock cast across the nightstand before he very carefully reached out and plopped the violets right on the top.

 

Perfect.

 

John would find them first thing in the morning.

 

Carefully retreating back down the hallway, Sherlock couldn’t help but beam, a small burst of pride swelling in his chest. If all went according to plan, he would have John moved out of that room by the end of tomorrow and into his own.

 

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, his body’s needs catching up and slowing down his thought process to sludge. He couldn’t ignore it. He needed sleep. He wandered down the hallway to his own bedroom and collapsed shortly after.

 

Sherlock didn’t even think to attach his notes on the language of flowers to help clue John into the meaning behind the white violets. They stayed scattered across the table, amongst the rest of his experiment notes, blending into pages upon pages of research on post mortem burns.

 

Instead, the meaning laid within the violets themselves and locked in Sherlock’s mind, a simple request that was meant to set aside all the ugliness of their incredibly complicated past -  _ Let’s Take a Chance at Happiness. _

 

~ * ~

 

John was a creature of habit. He had been used to waking up in the early hours of the morning for the army. Returning to civilian life changed a lot but not that part. Of course he had tried to match his sleep schedule to his new life style. In the end that had turned out as impossible and he had kept the tight routine. Sherlock never minded. Well, at least John had the impression the detective didn’t mind. They had developed a nice little dance around each other. John would do all the routine tasks which needed to be done, kept his schedule for Sherlock to wind around it, inserting his presence wherever he felt like it. 

 

So there was nothing unusual when his alarm clock sounded at half past five in the morning. What was unusual though was his hand not encountering the plastic casing right away. Confused John turned on the light to see a small bouquet of flowers. 

 

After the jarring ringing was turned off, John took to inspecting the flowers. They were delicate little things held together with a ribbon. There was no obvious explanation how they had gotten onto his alarm clock and what their intended use was. It was a bit worrying that Sherlock, it had to be the detective otherwise John would have to call Greg again because of fans overstepping any and all boundaries, was sneaking into his room at night. The doctor couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t some part of an experiment, possibly to do with drugging him. If he thought about it, it also could be an apology for an already conducted experiment concerning drugging him. One could never be careful enough with Sherlock Holmes but John had been quite certain that he hadn’t been a victim in recent times. That was until the flowers appeared on his nightstand.

 

Still confused he started his morning routine a lot later than usual. Set the kettle to boil, shower, brew tea, put the toast on, dress, take teabag out, prepare toast, grab paper, sit down, open paper and breakfast. Really, there wasn’t a lot to go wrong. The actions had already flown into muscle memory so that John was contemplating the meaning of the flowers the whole time. The little bouquet was lying innocently on the kitchen table. Since Sherlock didn’t appear to be attached to his notes, having flung them out all around the flat, some with obvious tea stains on them, John didn’t feel guilty for placing flowers on top. He had only just managed to clear an area for him to use, no need to do the same for some violets. 

 

The meaning of the sudden appearance of the flowers didn’t come to John over his breakfast tea. Did they have to do with the arrival of spring? No, Sherlock didn’t care for such things. When exactly had the other bought flowers the last time? John couldn’t remember. Normally both of them didn’t go out of their way to get cut flowers into the flat. Mrs. Hudson always had a fresh bouquet in the hallway and sneaked up the one or other potted plant which didn’t fit onto her windowsills anymore. Apart from that the flat was home to more dead than living things.

 

Best to treat the violets as if they were one of Sherlock’s mad experiments. Nothing could go wrong with that set of mind John decided. Nevertheless, he got a small water glass to place the violets in. Even if they were something Sherlock had already forgotten about, they could brighten up the flat a little as long as they weren’t withering. After all, they were already cut so John thought he could make the best of it.  

 

The doctor didn’t bother making too much noise or even calling Sherlock to say goodbye when he left for work. Who knew how long the detective had stayed up for his experiment. Better let the body get some much needed rest before some of London’s criminals decided to make an appearance again.

  
Still, violets. Why violets in particular? Something about this didn’t make sense. John had the distinct feeling that he was missing important information.  


	2. Lily of the Valley

Sherlock had assumed that John would be unable to understand the significance of the flowers the first time around. He planned on it, in fact. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a little disappointed when he found the violets on display in a drinking glass and no changes in John’s demeanor. In other words, there was an irrational part of him that was downright surly that John hadn’t woken him up with a kiss and a smile and they both could finally tell each other the words they’d danced around for ages now. So, of course, he still pouted in the direction of the wilting violets, reaching out to pluck one out of the glass and twirl it between his fingers. Too subtle then, he thought.

 

It was okay, though, because Sherlock was feeling rather confident in his next choice of flora. This time, he would do more to make it obvious to John that this was a romantic gesture, filled with glorious sentiment. Sherlock had learned from the first attempt, after all, and decided that this next step needed to be taken with a bit more grandeur. Or, at the very least, he would provide a bit more than just a hint towards his intentions, and he would provide it in writing.

 

The Lily-of-the-Valley was even more delicate than the violets, but their multiple meanings held true. He unburied his notes and scanned over his scrawled short hand. With pen in hand, he began to tick off each meaning, one by one, and weigh their relivance to both of them.

 

_ LotV- swtness, _

 

He pondered on this for a moment before he scratched it out. John had a number of good qualities about him. Sherlock often marveled at his kind heart, but when paired with John’s easily flaired temper and perchant for danger, “sweetness” was not an appropriate term to assign to John’s character. It simply did not carry the strength which Sherlock had always associated with John.

 

_ trs of Virgin Mary, _

 

Sherlock crossed that out too, merely because it wasn’t applicable to their situation in any way.

 

_ humility, _

 

Sherlock’s hand hovered over the word before he shrugged. No. That was appropriate. He was putting himself out on a limb here, casting aside his own pride and embracing a modesty that he hadn’t often entertained. In short of it, if this blew up in his face, humiliation would be one thing that he’d be feeling.

 

_ rtrn to “happiness”, _

 

He underlined that, several times, and tapped his pen a few times on the table before he added a few more lines under “happiness”. That was important. Ever since John moved back, that’s what Sherlock aiming for. Returning to their old selves, before “The Fall”, before Mary, when it was the two of them and everything was exactly as it should be. Well, almost everything, Sherlock amended to himself. He hoped that John would wish to pursue their friendship further forward, that was the whole point of this, and that’s what brought him to the final meaning of the Lily-of-the-Valley that laid presciously across the table.

 

_ You’ve Made My Life Complete _

 

Now this, Sherlock thought,  _ this _ summed everything up. There was really no denying such a concept, not in Sherlock’s mind at least. From the moment they met, Sherlock felt John fit perfectly within his life. He never shied away from the danger, embraced it in fact, and fell in stride with Sherlock with an ease that Sherlock had never encountered before and has yet to encounter again. They were perfect for one another. So he circled this in one grand sweeping flourish.

 

He checked the time. John would be awake in forty-three minutes. Sherlock gathered up the flowers, along with the definition this time, handing John an additional clue towards his intentions. He crept down to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. His mouth twiste as he looked around before he snapped his fingers and rummaged through the First Aid kit.

 

Quickly, he rolled the bit of notebook paper around the stems of the small white flowers, and adhered them to the mirror at John’s eye level with a three plasters and pressed on them firmly to ensure they would stick.

 

Sherlock admired his handiwork and smiled before he slipped out of the door into his own bedroom. He chewed on his lip and paced the room for the remaining twenty-seven minutes before he heard John’s alarm sound upstairs. He sucked in a breath and held it at the sound of John’s footfalls on the stairs. A sudden rise of uncontrolable and irrational panic caused him to jump into his bed and burrow deep within the covers to feign sleep.

 

John would find the flowers, with the note, in roughly ten minutes, Sherlock estimated. He had done everything possible to make their presence obvious. He mentally ran through each scenario and timed each reaction, cracking open one eye and fixing it on the door to the bathroom.

 

What he did not account for was John opting to shower right upon entering the bathroom. Nor did he think about the condensation that the steam from the hot water would create upon the surface of the mirror.

 

He thought about it now, of course, when the light clicked back on and the sound of water running filtered into his room, and by that point, it was far too late for him to fix this vast error in judgement.

 

~*~

 

John almost felt a little disappointed when his hand didn’t again encounter a bouquet of flowers as it hit the alarm clock. Nothing seemed to have changed about his room. He wasn’t sure if he was glad that Sherlock seemed to have respected his personal space or sad that whatever experiment it had been yesterday was over. Well, there was nothing for it so John got up. Needs must and he had to start his day, with flowers or without.

 

His morning routine was an easy one. Really, he could do it with his eyes closed if he wished so. The flat had quickly become acquainted again. To be honest, he had never forgotten the paths which lead him through the clutter springing up left and right from where Sherlock stood. In hindsight, it should have given him a fair warning that after half a year in the new flat he was still running against furniture because the layout didn’t quite fit the one he kept remembering. Hindsight isn’t good for anything, John decided and stepped into the shower.

 

He liked showering in the morning. The water could usually soothe away any cramps that had formed over night. John tried to remember if Sherlock had a regular shower pattern. Purely medical interest of course since finding patterns in the other’s behaviour helped to take care of his needs. Water was running over John’s head, steam slowly creeping into the rest of the small room, as he contemplated his friend’s habits. Usually, he would disappear into the bath after he had slept. Since he didn’t sleep regularly… Well, or when his hair was looking an actual mess and not the artsy kind Sherlock favoured. John chuckled softly. The detective was vainer than he wanted to admit.   

 

The mirror had fogged up as much as you would have expected it to after someone had taken a shower. John towelled his hair dry before turning on the water to brush his teeth.

“Shit”, he cursed under his breath and immediately stopped the water flow. There was a small bunch of lily of the valleys lying in the sink with a piece of paper. Seeing the plasters stuck around them John understood that they must have been attached to the mirror before falling off. The water hadn’t done any damage to the flowers but the ink had bled all over the paper. Making out words in Sherlock’s usual scrawl was already hard but like this, practically impossible.

 

“Why can’t you put your papers on a table like any other normal person?” John muttered quietly. He scooped up the flowers and peeled of the plasters, deciding to put them in the same water glass as the violets from the day before. The paper was waterlogged and its message probably irreparably lost, so John just threw it away. How important could it have been? 

  
  


That day in his lunch break John started to google. It was Sherlock so certainly the flowers were part of some kind of experiment. With the amounts of time he had been drugged, the first thing that sprang to mind was to research if the flowers where poisonous. Lily of the Valley came out as poisonous, which as a doctor John already knew but Violets didn’t seem to have any to him unknown killer tendencies.  

 

The next thing John thought about was Sherlock apologising for something which had already happened or would happen in near future. But since when did he do so with flowers? Yes, if there was milk in the fridge which John hadn’t put there or some kind of new appliance, the doctor knew what had happened. Flowers would be a completely new streak though and he didn’t want to imagine what Sherlock had done that warranted such a stark diversion of his patterns.

 

The last possibility he came up with was a case. Fumbling he sent Lestrade a message.

 

Sherlock have any cases with flowers with you? – JW

Flowers? No. Why? –GL

Okay, probably trying to poison me then. –JW

Okay, I just assume that is normal. –GL

More than the other possibility. Cheers. –JW

No case then. So, why did Sherlock suddenly decide to hand out flowers? 


	3. Ivy sprig of white tendrils

Sherlock rolled the single stem of ivy sprig between his index finger and thumb, staring at it with a longing expression. He sighed heavily before tossing it into the makeshift vase that John had made for his previously failed expressions of his feelings. There were scraps of paper littered around him, crumpled up into tight balls and strewn about the table and across the floor. He had tried to express his sentiments in writing, attempting to take the direct approach and hoping for the best, however, everything sounded too simplistic to properly encompass the gambit of emotions he had for his still best friend and flatmate and not yet lover (frustratingly enough).

 

That was what the flowers were supposed to do. They were supposed to speak for him. Unfortunately, they were doing a poor job silently communicating to John, because they hadn’t led the other man to him. Sherlock absently wondered if he should try to speak to John, face to face, but he feared his vocabulary may fail while doing so. He did have a habit of not quite saying the right thing and this was something he did not want to risk.

 

He shot a glance at the laptop screen, his research still open in the browser. He scrolled down, highlighting the meaning this particular ivy sprig with his cursor.

 

_ Ivy sprig (of white tendrils): Anxious to please. Affection. _

 

A simple enough message, but one that embodied Sherlock’s current state of mind. He wanted nothing more than to show John that he was capable of caring, that he had the heart to be romantic, if that is what John wanted. If nothing else, he wanted to prove to the other that he was capable of thinking about more than just himself and the Work, that he could fit John into his life much easier than he originally intended. He liked John. No, no. He  _ loved _ John, and his high powered mind could focus itself on more than just the intense need to continue working and keep from stalling into boredom. He could focus on making John happy, if allowed.

 

Sherlock arranged the ivy sprigs among the violets and the lily-of-the-valleys, the tiny white-green buds accenting the other flowers in a rather charming manner, even as the other flowers hung lower as they wilted by what seemed to be the hour. With leftover ribbon from his first bouquet, he tied a small, simple bow around the middle of the drinking glass.

 

With a great sweep of his arm, he brushed the abandoned love notes to the floor before he plucked another sheet of paper from his notebook. Across the lightly lined paper, in large letters, he wrote a very direct “To: John” and placed it face up and anchored by the glass. As an afterthought, he added across the top “White Violets, Lily-of-the-Valleys, Ivy Sprigs with White Tendrils” and then scratched out the ‘to’ and wrote down ‘for’ instead.

 

Sherlock’s bouquet for John - lacking color, but still full of meaning. He reached over and closed the laptop before he looked over and checked the time. John, as always, would be awake soon. He strode over to the door and jogged down the stairs, shrugging on his coat and scarf to fight the chill that still hung onto the early spring air.

 

He had to track down one last thing - red tulips - and he needed time to get the words that would go with them exactly right.

 

~*~

John got up with great care that morning. Nearly every step he took was accompanied by him looking out for delicate, little flowers lying around somewhere. He didn’t want to repeat the unfortunate event from yesterday. Over the day he had gotten increasingly sure that the slip of paper had held vital information. Of course he could have talked to Sherlock, well he would have talked to Sherlock. Miraculously, he hadn’t seen his flatmate and friend for the past two days. He had heard the odd door close and naturally seen the flowers but no glimpse of Sherlock.

 

When he came into the kitchen, his eyes were immediately drawn to his small makeshift vase. He noticed the new spring of flowers right away, although he did not notice what kind they were. Violets and lily of the valley had been easy enough but this one posed more of a challenge. Luckily the small slip of paper helped a bit.

 

John decided to get his morning routine on the way and ponder his options in the shower. Really, this behaviour had been incredibly strange. The doctor wasn’t sure how to fit it into his existing picture of the erratic consulting detective. Even when he let his mind wander, trying to think of Sherlock as the flower giving kind, he would never expect such delicate statements. In his mind, Sherlock would be the one for dramatic gestures, powerful blossoms and vibrant colours. This all didn’t help in shaking the feeling John had about the flowers. There had to be more to them and probably not their various degrees of being poisonous.

John made an exception from his routine. Instead of the morning paper he booted up his laptop. He distantly remembered a colleague in Afghanistan explaining to him that placing certain flowers in certain ways behind your ears had some kind of meaning in her culture. He just whished he remembered more. At that time he was too preoccupied with getting sex than listening. Perhaps this vague memory served him a bit now.

 

We need you for a half day. Can you make it work? – Sarah

 

John grinned, well Sherlock didn’t know about this change of schedule so perhaps he might be able to grab a hold of the other when he came back.

 

Sure, no problem. I’ll get myself on the way. Will be there as quick as traffic allows. –JW

Getting up, he hadn’t yet come far with his search but he was determined to finally make use of the mobile internet his new phone had come with. Mycroft seemed to have been under the strange impression, he would need this kind of service. So far he had never used it but guessed if he was already managing with the British Governments little brother the puppet master could foot any kind of bill. Either way the tube was a horrendously boring spot.

Half way through his journey John suddenly stumbled over an intersting website. It hadn’t been the fruit of a well-executed search but really more an accident of a too thick thumb on too small a screen.  _ Victorian Flower Language For Beginners _ . John had to grin involuntarily. The title was too fitting and he nearly had to slap himself for not thinking of this earlier. Of course Sherlock would speak through some kind of convoluted, vastly out of date medium. John was still scrolling through the list when he arrived at his stop. He didn’t expect to be able to walk with the phone in hand like nearly every other person, so he pocketed it. Hopefully he would have some time in between patients to find the flowers Sherlock had given him.

Shortly before his last patient John finally stumbled across his flowers. 

Violet (white) – Let’s take a chance on happiness

Lily of the valley - humility; return to happiness; you make my life complete

 

Ivy (spring of white tendrils) – anxious to please; affection

 

John leaned back. That was definitely something to process. Sherlock actually seemed to feel… affectionate? John was taken aback. He had buried any hope of ever getting closer than friendship with Sherlock after their first dinner at Angelo’s. The statement had been clear as glass. Apparently somehow it had changed and he himself had been to preoccupied with making sure everyone knew he was not gay.

 

The doctor chuckled softly. It could have all been so easy if Sherlock had given him the chance to talk. John wondered if the other had planned to give him this many flowers or if he had been  living in limbo these past days, only giving more as he saw that John didn’t get the message. Of course he would have reacted, had he just known what those little notes meant.

John might not have been on Sherlock’s level of mastery when it came to flower language but there was one thing widely accepted: You love someone, you give them a red rose. For a girl he might have gone for a seasonal bouquet but this was Sherlock and to be honest it felt strange arriving home with a bouquet of flowers. Although, it might be nice to have spring flowers in the flat. In the end, he decided to take some for Mrs. Hudson nevertheless, their landlady deserved god knew more for putting up with them, but not for Sherlock. The detective had been delicate, so John would be too.  A single red rose.

He was nervous. He had deciphered the flowers, yes but he couldn’t judge Sherlock’s reaction. For all he knew the other would behave like a skittish deer, bolting for the door at having to confront the topic head on. Mrs. Hudson’s flowers were left downstairs, a sweet bouquet of tulips, asters and irises. John knew Sherlock was home by the soft noises coming from their flat. He took one last deep breath, ascended the stairs while avoiding every creek there was, and very unlike himself knocked at the door. Sherlock had played a game and John wanted to see up close when the other realised he had been caught.


	4. Red Tulip

Sherlock knew many things, but flower arrangements was not his forte, that was for certain. He had returned with the red tulips, a proper vase, and some nice paper to write the final clue. Well, not a clue, per se. A proper sentiment that wrapped up everything he meant and thought and how he wanted to proceed.

 

If only these tulips would cooperate with him. He had trimmed down the stems, which were scattered across the floor, but even so, they wanted to crowd and over take the pre-existing (and dying) flowers from the previous days. He let out a frustrated groan when he heard the door and dropped his head. He growled a little, rubbing his temples and tossing the scissors across the floor before he snapped, “For God’s sake Mrs. Hudson! I said I wasn’t accepting any…” he trailed a bit, eyes trained to the door where he saw John. 

 

“Good that I’m not a client then”, John smiled, slightly unsure. He was standing in their doorway shuffling a bit from one foot to the other. His doubts were growing. Really, who knew if this was a good idea in the first place.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood quickly, trying to block John’s view of the vase as his hands fidgeted before finally settling onto the back of his neck and digging lightly into the skin. “You’re… well… I wasn’t expecting… umm….” he trailed again, pursing his lips before he rocked back onto his heels and then cleared his throat once more, for good measure. “You’re home early…”

 

“Ehrm, yes.” John nodded, “Just half a day, Sarah texted, earlier.” He was still holding the rose in his hand, not sure how to set in motion what he had envisioned now. It had seemed simple enough in his head. The slight chaos in the room which was left by Sherlock’s flower trimming, didn’t even register. At the moment John tried to think of a fitting way to express what he was doing in their home with a red rose.

 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked across John’s posture and he frowned, momentarily forgetting about his own anxiety in favor of focusing on his flatmate’s. “You’re nervous,” he blurted out, his mind registering and cateloguing each subconscious tell towards John’s distress. “Why are you nervous?” He finally settled on the rose clutched in John’s hand before everything snapped into place in his head. “Oh,” was all he could muster, the meaning of the gesture not lost on him, but no less surprising. He’d been found out.

 

John took a deep breath when Sherlock at last seemed to realise. “Well, I haven’t read the whole page and probably there is one that would declare this and so on but… this is how I was raised.”  He stepped further into their living room, looking down at the rose and then at Sherlock. “You made that quite difficult, you know? As well with the running off during the day.”

 

“I assure you… I wasn’t meaning to be difficult…” he took one step to the side and dropped his chin downward before he clicked his heels together as he tried his best to stand a little straighter. He made a sweeping gesture towards the vase with the still frustratingly lopsided addition of the tulips among the violets and the lilies and the ivy sprigs. “It was meant to be romantic,” he declared with finality, adding a vague flourish with the tips of his fingers.

  
  


John smiled softly and stepped closer. Sherlock’s posture was weird enough to make the situation lovable. “I apprechiate it. But I was caught a bit off guard, just a hint would have been nice.” He extended his hand slightly presenting the rose, “With all the troubles you went through, I hope this is romantic enough for you. I just felt that I at least somehow had to answer in kind. Will you tell me what the tulips mean? They weren’t there this morning so I didn’t look them up.”

 

Sherlocked sucked in a deep breath through his nose and pressed his lips into a tight line. He made a short, quiet hum before he finally spoke in a very soft voice. “Believe me,” he quoted from his research. He flexed his fingers before he finally started to gather up the discarded stems with his foot, gently sweeping them into a small pile. He cast one final look to his personalized bouquet for John and then flicked his eyes to meet John’s. “They’re… also used as a declaration of… love.”

 

“And what does this tell you?” John murmured, gently taking one of Sherlock’s hands to place the rose in it.

 

Sherlock paused as he reached back to remember his research before he finally remarked, “It means love… and respect… but is a commonly associated with romance…” he looked down at the rose cradled carefully in his palm before a small smile began to tug the corners of his lips upwards. “You got this for me,” he stated, observing the obvious. “This… is your answer?”

 

“Yes”, John nodded, standing quite a bit closer to Sherlock than he noramlly would, “It’s common, just like me, nothing special but that doesn’t mean it’s not serious.”

 

“Common? You?” Sherlock huffed out a small bit of laughter before he set the rose aside and gathered up one of John’s hands. “Oh, John. You aren’t at all common.”

 

“I am but perhaps that is exactly what I need to be to not despair with you”, John chuckled. “I have no problem to scavenge the internet for explanations of your behaviour and you decided I’m interesting enough to keep around. I believe that is quite the lucky strike for both of us.”

 

Sherlock turned John’s hand in his own, pressing their palms together before he tightened his grip and pulled John closer by just a fraction. “So. Declarations of love being said… what now?”

 

“I thought in your intricate plan which involved the victorian language of flowers you had thought of that step.” John hummed and couln’t help but let his tongue dart out to lick his lips. The next step seemd inevitable, “Or did you stop before you came to this point?”

 

“I couldn’t plan that far ahead… too many variables laid with your reactions. I only planned with what I could be certain of - and what I was certain of were the flowers and their meanings and how they pertained to how I felt and what I hoped would be,” Sherlock worried his bottom lip a little with his teeth before he took in another breath, “The rest relied on you.”

 

“Well, I usually don’t plan at all”, carefully John moved to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands, “More a man of action.” He touched their lips together almost so lightly that it nearly didn’t register, mainly because he was still a bit worried that Sherlock would simply flee but even that faintest of touches let his own heart beat quicker.

 

“A personality quirk that was… as I said… a variable…” Sherlock murmored against John’s lips before he tentatively pressed further against the other, hands ceasing in their nervous twitches and landing on John’s shoulder blades as he drew him into an embrace.

  
John didn’t answer just let one hand slide into Sherlock’s neck. He might not know his way around flowers but kissing was an entirely seperate matter. 


End file.
